


The Heat in our Words

by goldfwish



Series: Drarryland 2019 [7]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: An Abundance of Abstract Metaphors, Ficlet, M/M, POV Draco Malfoy, POV Second Person, Power of Words, flangst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-18
Updated: 2019-03-18
Packaged: 2019-11-24 00:45:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18159212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldfwish/pseuds/goldfwish
Summary: He has given them to you, his words, his broken pieces, and you think that maybe here, between the sheets, you are starting to heal.





	The Heat in our Words

**Author's Note:**

> ONE - Your first Detention will be served with Filch - You must write Drarry + Hogwarts Detention - either 1) **Receiving the detention** -OR- 2) Serving the detention. 
> 
> Thank you to [keyflight790](https://archiveofourown.org/users/keyflight790/pseuds/keyflight790) for the beta!

It’s dark in the room. He is on top of you, but you can’t see him. You can only feel. Can feel your shoulder blades pressing into the mattress, feel his weight on top of you, feel his skin, his unkempt hair. His glasses, cold and unrelenting, digging into your cheekbone. You can’t see, but you can feel, and you can hear. And the words he gives you, they are beautiful. 

Every single one, pressed against your body, whispered, hot and wet. They wrap around you, a hazy cloud, all at once a comfort and a curse. Because he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know what those words, carelessly spoken, do to you. They burrow deep in your crevices, put splinters in your chest. 

He tells you that you are broken, and that you are okay. It is okay to be broken, he says. You are okay. He is your starlight, the fireflies that flicker, lighting the path down to your doom. 

You are broken. But it’s okay. He is broken too. He is a fissure that runs deep in your spine. You are a fault line that cracks in his eyes. And you don’t know when the earthquake will begin.

You feel inadequate, but he only whispers, the vowels that fall from his tongue licking down your sides, back up your chest, and into your own mouth, until you are choking, wet with tears. You cannot speak, cannot return the words that he has given you.

You are the oil in the lamp, and he is the match that strikes against your soul. And you are _burning_. And you can’t help but wonder, when will your fuel run out? When, when, when? But for now, you are warm, and that is all that matters.

He has given them to you, his words, his broken pieces, and you think that maybe here, between the sheets, you are starting to heal.

———————

But for all that words can heal, they can hurt just as well. 

You are in the courtyard when he arrives, and he is wound up tight, a spring under too much pressure, too many eyes. And in his eyes is a torch, unlit. For now.

You open your mouth to speak, but you were never good with words, not like he is. You cannot do the same as he did to you that night. You never learned the language of comfort, of sincerity. You have only ever known one language, and that one is harsh, thorns wrapped in steel wool. 

But you speak anyway, and you hope he will understand. But the barrier is too strong. The embers in his eyes flare to a blazing roar, and you are terrified. But you do not stop talking, cannot stop talking, please, just _stop talking_. 

You were speechless once. But not now.

He, the fox, and you, the butterfly. He pounces, and you start to take flight, but he lights the flame, and your wings burn before you. And then he is there, pinning you down on the unforgiving stone, but this is different. Oh, so different. He is _angry_ and his words aren’t whispered, they are _thrown_ against you, and you crumble. But you are fueled.

You drink his words in, a butterfly craving its nectar. You drink in his passion, and his flame ignites yours.

He has already planted himself inside you, and now he strikes the match, again and again, all at once giving you strength while drying up every scrap of hope that you might have once possessed, when the words he whispered filled in your cracks.

He is the fox, and he has stolen you. Your heart, your soul. The flame inside you crawls up your ribcage, licks at your insides, and you need to _hurt him_ , you need him to _feel_ what he has done to you. You reach out to him, skin on skin, fingers around his throat, and he cannot breathe, he cannot speak. How does it feel, Harry?

Footsteps and shouting break through the smoke, and he is gasping, oxygen rasping in his lungs. Students are pointing, a professor is speaking, and her words barely register.

Detention. It seems so juvenile, after everything.


End file.
